


No It Isn't

by SecondHeartbeat (Epictry)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epictry/pseuds/SecondHeartbeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Navy and Marines party off base at the beach with a bonfire, booze and fireworks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bottom Shelf Whiskey

John didn't feel too much regret about the turn the night had taken. Drunk sailors and Marines crowded the shoreline of the beach. He'd posted up against the white wooden posts of a lifeguard tower, shut down tight. He didn't particularly appreciate the way the corner of the wood dug into his back either against his spine or into one shoulder blade, but breaking into a lifeguard tower also seemed to be an inch too far in law breaking. Public intoxication on a public beach after hours which amounted to criminal trespass and likely a drunk and disorderly charge seemed the appropriate place to stop pushing the envelope.

He watched Chaffin out by the surf with the legs of his fatigue's rolled up to the knee. He'd been sprinting in and out of the water, jumping waves, all while holding on to a fifth of whiskey - the bottle half drained. Christeson just hoped he hadn't done that all by himself. He could probably stand to drink the whole bottle alone, but it wouldn't be pretty later. He honestly just didn't want to hear Chaffin's bitching. If the whiskey-tango neo-racist wanted to drink himself unconscious and spend the days ahead miserable and puking, Christeson wouldn't dare stand in his way.

Where Christeson sat in the sand he had a bottle of whiskey - Evan Williams, in a ironic turn of events. He looked at the black bottle and sighed. He could probably take another shot and still be reasonably in control. He looked down to his lap and the blonde head pressed cheek down against his thigh. Stafford had consumed too much whiskey in too little time. The result he'd become unmanageable, irritated, belligerent and after senseless rambling arguments had collapsed. Christeson took him to the lifeguard shack, planted their bottle of booze in the sand, sat down and made Evan lay on his side. The wily bastard with his negative body fat had of course gotten cold laying by his lonesome and incrementally worked his way to the current position. Arms pulled in close, head on Christeson's lap, and in and out of consciousness - Evan had the best seat out there as far as John could tell.

"I'z sawry, bruh," Evan slurred again, ending on a pained groan.

John breathed his half hearted laughter and stroked from Evan's temple to the nape of his neck.

"You're fine, playa. Just chill. I got this,"

Evan groaned again and John continued with the comforting touches, brushing his fingers along the scruff of Evan's neck, over the knobby vertebrae beneath his warm skin. It started a tingle in the bottom of John's belly. They'd always been a touchy feely bunch - always spouting off gruff about the homoeroticism of the Corps and their unit. It just felt different to touch Evan this way, knowing the touch didn't come from the urge to tease or make light of all the time they spent together. He didn't necessarily want to examine where the gentle stroking of his friend's skin came from.

"You saw nize tuh may," Evan managed to string together syllables resembling words. "Yur cool, you know dat,"

"Yea, real cool, Q-tip."

"Mmm," Stafford purred, moving a hand from his chest and stroking Christeson's leg from knee down as if petting a prized pooch, "Okay,"

Evan snorted and huffed a breath out. That's when he took his second involuntary nap of the night. His wrist draped uselessly over Christeson's leg, fingers dangling down, planted in the sand. He shook his head and reached for the bottle of whiskey. Chaffin had spotted him and Stafford it seemed. With Chaffin on approach, John unscrewed the cap and took a slug of the bitter firey liquor. He had to mentally prepare for every gay joke under the sun. The warmth in his belly that began from that tickle had yet to subside. It mixed with the warmth traveling down his throat from the shot of whiskey.

John didn't want to think about what that meant. He just wanted to sit back against the uncomfortable wooden post, with Evan asleep head on his lap, arm across John's legs and pretend that it hadn't been because of irresponsible binge drinking and post traumatic stress. If he could strike the correct balance between drunk and fantasizing, he could pretend otherwise - that they were alone on this beach without sailors and brother Marines loitering sand and surf, that Evan wanted to lay there with him under the stars and use him as a pillow because he found John to be that kind of comfort.

"Hey, limpdicks. What the hell is this?" Chaffin stopped in front of Christeson and Stafford towering over to assess the situation.

"Snoop had too much Gin and Juice, tonight. You know how it do," John answered dryly.

"He pass out before he give you the happy ending?"

"Afraid so," John retorted with a crooked grin.

"I ought to get a picture of this shit," Chaffin declared and reached into his fatigue pocket searching for some device to secure visual proof of Q-tip's embarrassing position.

"Aw, come on. He's passed out."

"He'd do the same for me," came the reply, playing at solemn.

Christeson twisted away from the lens while Chaffin snapped photos. Maybe he could at least save himself some humiliation even if he couldn't save Stafford from it. Chaffin shook his head, replacing his phone back into his pants pocket.

"You know, he looks kind of sad all curled up like that; on your hammy leg no less."

"I'm sure the photos captured that, Chaffin. Now, are you going to stand there towering like a creep or what?"

"Thought about keeping you company, but looks like you girls are trying to get some alone time."

Christeson did not know why it surprised him that already the homoerotic innuendos had begun. He felt a slight pang through his center and then the shivery surge of adrenaline. He wondered if somehow Chaffin sensed the slight attraction he felt or maybe even noticed subtle signs that he or Q-tip gave off. Christeson knew this banter between them was not an outing or labeling. They all teased each other to establish dominance, no matter how fleeting. It seemed banter regarding illicit romantic relationships won out as the best way to demean and overpower your opponent.

“I think Q-tip’s finally drunk enough to have a threesome, though. You might want to stick around,”

“Oh fuck that.” Chaffin retorted, squatting down beside Christeson despite his claim, “I think I will have some of that fine ass Whiskey though,”

“You’ve got a bottle of Jack,” Christeson laughed, “This is Ev Williams, not Jameson. You’re seeing things,”

“Dammit,” Chaffin swore, lifting the bottle from the sand and realizing his mistake. “You nigga’s do drink on the cheap,”

Christeson just laughed and pulled it from Chaffin’s hand. Evan stirred on John’s lap and moaned. John twisted off the cap of the liquor bottle and put it to his lips. He took a healthy swig and set it back down in the sand. Evan coughed, wet and labored. Chaffin’s upper lip curled back and he started to unscrew his bottle of whiskey.

“Yo dawg, you better not hurl you hear me. I can’t handle that shit tonight,” Chaffin told Q-tip, slugging back a gulp of his Jack Daniels.

“Fuh kew, Jay fin,” Evan slurred, “You lesbian,”

Christeson snickered and Chaffin fully cackled. Christeson held out his hand to Chaffin who without hesitation passed the bottle of Gentleman Jack over. Christeson took a tentative sip and turned his head to the side, coughing. He took another sip, larger this time and turned back to Chaffin with a pained expression painting his features.

“You pay extra for that?” Christeson asked, wiping his mouth after Chaffin took back the bottle.

“Sorry my booze doesn’t taste like vitamins and cherry cough syrup, homeboy.” Chaffin answered, slightly indignant upon the criticism of his drink.

“Ev-han Will yums, is m-eye name,” Stafford slurred from Christeson’s lap, “Best res-peck,”

“Yes, sir Mr. Williams,” Chaffin immediately replied through a smirk.

Christeson looked over and Chaffin shook his head and rolled his eyes. Chaffin pointed to the bottle in the sand, then to Stafford and back to Christeson with a questioning look. Christeson pointed down at Stafford and then put his finger to the bottle to indicate the amount the liquid had dropped in the bottle on account of Stafford. Then he pointed at himself and made a much smaller pinch gesture. Chaffin rolled his eyes and offered up his bottle of booze. Christeson waved it off and reached for the Evan Williams.

“You better get drunk, Fucknuts,” Chaffin warned, “I don’t want you just babysitting all night. We gotta show those sailors how this shit is done,”

“Fuh, nyeah,” Evan gurgled rolling over onto his back, so he looked up at Christeson, “Yew knee gedt shitty,”

“Yes,” Christeson replied through a wide smile down at his drunk friend, “I really really do, but you’re passing out drunk and I don’t want you to pull a John Bonham,”

Evan stared back a little dazed.

“He choked on his own vomit after getting shitfaced,” Christeson supplied.

“Fuh mayn,” Stafford squawked, “Gemmey up, den.”

Christeson looked over to Chaffin for an opinion. Chaffin just shrugged and smiled back.

“Water’s cold. You could toss him in. That’d sober his ass up.”

Stafford narrowed his eyes and tried to turn to see Chaffin, but instead he brushed his face into Christeson’s shirt and abdomen. Christeson turned him back trying to be gentle with him. Stafford rolled over and moved his knees from tucked against his body to the sand. Christeson reached for Evan’s shoulder, but Evan rolled forward pulling his cheek from Christeson’s lap so he moved out of his reach.

“Fuh bow uh you,” He grumbled crawling on hands and knees in the sand.

Christesons sighed loudly and leaned back, planting his palms into the sand to hold him up. He watched Evan shuffled forward and stop in the sand, brace himself and start to straighten his knees to try to stand up. Chaffin had started to laugh quietly and covered his mouth to muffle the sound. Normally, Christeson would find it hilarious, but Evan had gotten terrifically drunk and gotten suddenly annoyed with him. He did not think if Stafford got to his feet and wandered off he would be up to any good.

“Hey, Evan. Just chill out. We ain’t going to throw you in the water,” John called out to him.

Evan pulled his hands from the sand and shakily rose to standing. He wobbled slightly and then crossing an arm over his stomach he started forward, walking in the direction of the others out on the beach. Christeson sighed again and reached for his bottle of whiskey. Chaffin watched Stafford amble toward the bonfire, probably headed toward another member of First Recon.

“You think anyone will spot him some booze over there?”

“Probably.” Christeson frowned, “Who doesn’t love a good trainwreck?”

“He’s going to start some shit. I guarantee,” Chaffin surmised in thick southern drawl. “You ought go police his ass. Maybe take him home.”

“Yeah, well. He’s a grown ass man. He can’t get into too much trouble and if he gets to running his mouth writing checks his ass can’t cash, then maybe he’ll think about that next time he wants to Olympic drink.”

“That’s cold,” Chaffin grinned, stretching his legs and then arms and then nudging Christeson.

John looked over at Chaffin who nodded toward the bonfire and the intermingling crowd.

“Let’s get our asses back over there. We came out here to party, not hold our dicks and sip shitty booze by our lonesome,”


	2. Chapter 2

Colbert had to be bribed, but he still met Christeson, Stafford, Chaffin and Garza at a parking lot about half a mile from where the beach party took place. Christeson had to drag Q-tip away from a keg, but he’d kept him from drinking more than one plastic cup of beer. Garza had intended to be the designated driver, but that plan had gone out the window after about an hour. They knew they could count on their hermit staff sergeant who truly despised and avoided crowds of people gathering for the expressed purpose of socializing. Colbert may have had to put down something electronic he’d started working on or abandon a program he’d been writing, but he didn’t have a wife or kids to sneak out of the house from.

“You are all terrible people and should be ashamed of yourselves,” Colbert called from the driver’s seat of his Jeep through the rolled down window.

“Yeah yeah,” Garza retorted, staggering alongside Chaffin to the vehicle.

Christeson had an arm around Stafford behind his back and hand clamped to his ribcage. Stafford held on to the shoulder closest to him and they muddled forward.

“Put him in the back.” Brad told Christeson, “He looks like burnt dog shit,”

“Sup, Sargent Colbert,” Q-tip greeted with a smile, swerving in his steps.

“How drunk is he?” Colbert questioned, possibly surprised.

Christeson just offered a shrug and yanked open the back door of the jeep for Stafford. Chaffin had already gotten in the other side to the back seat passenger side and Garza took passenger front. With Chaffin helping pull Stafford in and Christeson giving him a boost and push from behind Stafford managed to get inside. Christeson rolled down the window for him and looked at the small space between Stafford and Chaffin.

“I don’t think I’m going to fit back there,”

“Make do. It seats five uncomfortably,” Brad quipped, taking perverse pleasure in their suffering.

“Keep him at the window. I’ll go around,” Christeson told Chaffin who graciously moved closer to Stafford and took the unfortunate position of middle seat.

Christeson thanked him before getting in and shutting the door. Brad pulled forward, not wasting any time in getting the Marines back to their living arrangements and away from dealing with their drunken antics.

“I figured you’re probably going to be dealing with fall out all night and all tomorrow. I can shove his head out the window for a few minutes,” Chaffin told Christeson, who smirked in return.

Christeson shut his eyes and tilted his head back. He had his arms in front of him, trying to will his body to become as narrow as possible. Chaffin had partially turned so he faced Q-tip and Q-tip had been shoved against the door, had his head forward chin to his chest and was groaning miserably.

Brad true to form had a problem with staying beneath the speed limit. Garza had his fingers gripping until white on the door panel. Q-tip seemed to appreciate the wind blowing against his face. The wind noise from Stafford’s open window cancelled out any chance of a conversation – Brad probably preferred that byproduct.

~*~

Stafford held on to Christeson as they walked from to the front door. Christeson took out his key and twisted it in the lock. He waved to Brad before pushing open the door. Stafford groaned and dug his fingers in tighter to the handfuls of Christeson’s shirt. John pulled him inside and pushed the door shut, fumbling his hand along the wall for the light switch before he tried to move him to his bedroom.

“John,” Q-tip whined.

Christeson found the light switched and flipped it causing Q-tip to flinch from the brightness.

“I’m going to put you to bed. C’mon,”

“Nah,” Stafford argued, resting his head on John’s shoulder, “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,”

Christeson looked over at Evan as best as he could at the odd angle he had to twist.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means by the time I hit the keg I may have faked it a little bit,”

“Why?!”

“Give you a reason to be here and stay the night,” Q-tip smirked lifting his head from Christeson’s shoulder. “I did get pretty trashed earlier though from the whiskey,”

“So you just let me think you were out of your mind drunk,” Christeson asked, pulling away from Q-tip and giving him a scrutinizing look. “That’s -

“You should stop thinking about it so hard and just kiss me,”

“Now I know you’re drunk,” Christeson said, pulling Q-tips hands from his shirt and stepping back.

“You’ve wanted to kiss me all night,” Stafford insisted, looking at Christeson with confusion, “You were rubbing my neck and petting me while I was laying on your lap.”

Christeson opened his mouth to object, then closed it and frowned, looking down at the floor. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

“What’s the problem?” Stafford asked stepping toward Christeson.

“Hold up.” Christeson pulled his hands out of his pockets and put them up to hold Q-tip at bay, “I just, you and me both been drinking and tomorrow-“

Stafford tipped his head to the side and gave Christeson an impatient look. He didn’t give any credence to the line of reasoning from Christeson.

“It’s –“

“Gay,” Evan finished with a smirk and shrug of his own.

Christeson put down his hands and then swallowed nervously. Stafford took another step toward him and looked him in the eyes.

“If you really ain’t feeling it, then that’s cool,” Q-tip said in almost a whisper.

“Evan,” Christeson stammered, looking away from him for a moment and swallowing again.

Stafford had a smile playing on his lips as he leaned in to John and raised one hand, cupping his cheek and tilting his head back a little to accommodate their slight height difference. John’s hands hung at his sides and he let his eyes shut. He felt Evan’s warm breath against his lips and he realized he had been holding his breath. As he let it out and relaxed, Evan’s lips met his. His heart sped up and he moved a small step in to Evan and reached out for him. His hands found the curve of his hips and rested there easily. Evan couldn’t help but laugh against John’s mouth.

“Knew it,” Evan mumbled.

“Shut it,” John replied, stroking fingers on Evan’s skin keeping his palms in place.

Evan cupped his other cheek and pulled him closer, kissing him again, emboldened by Christeson’s touch. Their lips pressed together harder and John opened his eyes, found Evan looking back at him and couldn’t contain his moan looking into hazel irises barely seeing his own reflection. Evan slipped his tongue against Christeson’s lips invited by the complementing noises. John didn’t expect him to go this far, but parted his lips a little wider. When he felt the hot tongue slide past his own and could taste the faint hints of whiskey and maybe a hint of cheap beer, he pulled Evan’s hips forward. John followed in to his lead and their bodies met, matched up and almost able to stand chest to chest if not for keeping the kiss going.

Evan pulled back first and broke the kiss, breathless. He took one hand from John’s face and brushed his fingertips over his lips, wiping them. Then he licked them, wetting them with his own saliva.

“Just so you know, I don’t put out on the first uh, hook up.” Evan said cautiously.

“Who said I would,” John shot back.

“Nah, I mean. I, uh, man, shit. I don’t want to be the one sounden gay, here.”

“Just say it and then you can put your tongue back in my mouth, as un-gay as possible,” John teased.

Evan smiled wide and leaned in closer. “Just kind of want to make out, ya know? Chill in my room, put on a flick, and -”  
John returned the smile and kissed Evan first, slowly and a little shyly. He pulled back just enough so that he could reply.

“You dumb wigger. That’s what I’ve been wanting to do all night,”


End file.
